


Doctor's Hands

by Jimlockian



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlockian/pseuds/Jimlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has just spent hours inside a dumb waiter, waiting for a murderer, and every inch of him hurts - Once back at 221b John administers the best medicine he has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doctor's Hands

**Author's Note:**

> My first Johnlock centric fic! Huzzah! I saw an excellent idea for one, and then this happened..
> 
> Credit to Doyle, Moffat, & Gatiss, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!

 When it comes to a high strength of mental will, Sherlock is the being to turn to. He has a strange abundance of the stuff. Enough that the word freak has become a lesser evil, some people do not see him as human. The way he does not eat, or sleep on a case, or engage in that basic human need to be social at any time, does not help his cause.

After many cases John has watched Sherlock in the aftermath. John has seen him devour food that would slow his mental machinations hours earlier. He has seen the sleep of the dead take hold of the raven haired man for so long that thrice so far John has become medically concerned. Yet John has never seen Sherlock in such pain...

The crime, a rather convoluted one even for Sherlock's standards, had forced the detective's sublime body to contort itself to fit inside a dumb waiter. Then hours of waiting had occurred, with Sherlock Holmes hiding in the cramped two by two space alone all the while.

John Watson still has no idea how his flatmate managed to spring out at precisely the right moment and catch the villain in the act; He knew his legs would have fallen asleep by then, and the graceless tumble most likely to occur when he dismounted the dumb waiter would only lead to the criminal's escape. Instead, Sherlock Holmes walked away from the bloodless crime scene with his head held high, body erect, and his prey being guided to the police car under Detective Inspector Lestrade's firm hand.

So it was not until the cab ride back to 221b that John can inquire about Sherlock's state of health, after, of course, the summary explanations that John never seems to catch until the very end. The exchange is brief, and not telling, but enough for John to know Sherlock feels the soreness.

Sherlock lies on the couch with a long groan, ignoring the pulsations of pain beating like some imprinted club rhythm hours after leaving. He does not flop down as per his usual, but instead turns his body over to the furniture's care gingerly. John is surprised by his gentle movements and runs his gaze over the prone figure.

The sleek pile of coat fabric topped with onyx locks that is Sherlock arches slightly. Muscles pop in a cacophony of sound that sets John's brows to furrow together. A low moan was released before Sherlock settled back down in silence.  
  
“Can I get you something?” John offers amicably.  
  
No answer.  
  
“Sherlock, I could get you some aspirin.” He genially continues.

No answer.  
  
“Right, guess I'll put the kettle on.” Resigned to his unwanted position, the militant man turns to leave with a stiff backbone. One word stops him.  
  
“John.” That low masculine voice had dropped another octave in his aching state. A touch imploring, barely there, but John is so attune to his flatemate's voice that it is distinctive to his ears.  
  
All thought of tea is forgotten as John walks to the side of the couch. Immediately he is greeted by an arm abruptly jutting out into his path. With slow comprehension John grips the end of the right sleeve and takes hold of Sherlock's arm, helping the detective pull it back to be half-free of the sweeping piece of fashion. With a patience beyond his years John bunches the coat to the opposite side to wrest Sherlock's other arm free.

The lanky detective lies limber at John's ministrations to free him. Quiet is something he has grown used to, but not this washed out stillness. It strikes John that he has never been so physically close to Sherlock in their time sharing a flat – minus the little problem with Sherlock being drugged by Ms. Adler.

John sweeps a hand over the man's neatly tailored jacket, feeling the knots bunched underneath. Sherlock's body has endured more trials than he had expected, and now he merely wants to sleep it off, but John knows the better course of action is to apply a remedy. Time has a way of festering, but John knows medication can turn that time to soothing. The only medications available without nipping out to the chemist's are his hands.

“Sherlock, roll over.”  
  
No answer. He repeats the request and Sherlock's muffled huff against the couch cushion is heard.

“The best thing for you right now,” Says John in his even doctoral voice, flush with his hand-holding undertone. “Is a back massage, or those muscles will only hurt more later.” As Sherlock remains motionless and silent, John sighs and continues as if deterred, “I'll run down to the corner shop then.”

There is a twinge of motion, and slowly but surely Sherlock begins to roll over. He has barely begun when a groan is ripped from his throat by the throbbing in his lower back. John puts one hand on his friend's shoulder and the other at his side, just above his belly. With his training John get the stiff man on his side and begins to grapple with the maze of buttons on Sherlock's suit jacket and shirt.

It surprises John just how dazed the bright eyed man appears, those hawk-eyes gone dull with fatigue the likes of which John has never seen. His clothes still on, eyes open, yet he seemed to be careening into the first stage of REM sleep.

“In our own flat it's not like people will talk.” John half jokes to ease back into the silence. It is slightly embarrassing to be taking down Sherlock's buttons like this, but the thought remains in the back of his mind, and care of his friend at the forefront. As carefully as his doctor's hands can manage the buttons are plucked free. John ignores his flatemate's pale chest – sculpted, taut, and yet the git spent not one day at the gym. A mixture of jealousy and intrigue lit within the doctor at the sight.

Instead of staring John slowly guides Sherlock to lay back down, face down again but now with a billowing of fabric off to the sides. Repeating his efforts with Sherlock's jacket, John guides the suit top and undershirt off with mindful holds of Sherlock's arms to make sure he is not yanked. Even with this care Sherlock still winces at one shift of cotton, and John can see it in the muscle tension.

“Sorry.” Mumbles the doctor apologetically, pausing to neatly place the clothes over a nearby chair. When he turns back the snowy field of skin that greets him makes John's browns fall to the floor. Realizing that Sherlock is still face down in the couch, in too much pain to lift his head, they rise back up again. The normally imposing stare that breaks John down to his basest parts is off him. Now he feels at ease enough to let his gaze roam without fear of repercussion.

Truly a beautiful man, and no heterosexual would fault him for saying it, John was sure. Some individuals are just distinctly striking, in a way beyond that of the general populous, and either gender would realize their glamor regardless of orientation - Sherlock fits the bill.

For that reason John is finding his thoughts straying off the curative path. He is no chiropractor but he knows the human body, and better still he knows what he ought not do. John takes a minute to find the nearest tea towel and fold it, lifting Sherlock's head and placing it underneath his forehead with the explanation, “We need to take pressure off your neck.. Tell me if anything causes you more discomfort.”

Slipping into the doctor role is not as easy as putting on a new pair of scrubs but John manages while kneeling beside the couch. His hands fall into the proper position for CPR, one over the other, but instead he lays them in the small of Sherlock's back, just above his trousers, and begins rubbing small circles with his palms. John feels constricting masses of muscle under that sleek flesh but Sherlock remains silent.

Healing hands slide up tense skin, giving light soothing pressure up Sherlock's back, twice before John has fallen into a comfortable enough rhythm. He makes a loose fist and begins to press into the hot tight clusters on either side of Sherlock's spine around his upper back. The detective grumbles low in his throat as his body yields.

Keeping up that doctor-patient mindset has never been as difficult.. Even with a beautiful woman there is that sense of distance one can assume based on ignorance. John is the least likely person to be ignorant of Sherlock Holmes. He knows the man better than most, but this, this is getting truly intimate.

John keeps his knuckles perpendicular to Sherlock's back as they traipse up in a fluid motion. Upon reaching the detective's shapely shoulders his hand rounds just over them, fingers slowly spread to begin massaging with all ten digits. Sherlock's trapezius worked first before John edges outward to his deltoids. With each passing moment the consulting detective's body lets up a little more. 

Instead of enthused, John only grows more cautious as his movements. His thumb and index finger spread apart, placing them at the bottom of Sherlock's back off to one side and dragging them upward, creating a tract of flesh on either side of John's digits from the pressure. John works one hand at a time, feeling the muscles ripple and dilate slowly under his weathered palms.

Sherlock's breathing is soft and steady, flowing with ease. John notices it for the first time in their quiet flat. That simple fact floors John for a moment - They've been there how many times before, and he has not heard the other man breathing. Quite a simple and surprisingly lulling noise at that..

Realizing that his appendages had stilled before their task was through, John begins again with renewed vigor. He continues the L-shaped motion with his hand, twisting his wrist to dig into the muscle for a little while, altering to using just the pads of his thumbs on the alabaster along the detective's spine.

Sherlock makes a slight sound, a barely audible rumble. John chuckles and smiles, “That's your teres major if I'm not mistaken.” John presses his thumb in harder and feels Sherlock's body unwinding more sharply.

Growing a touch curious after teasing such now supple flesh, John angles his knees so that he is sitting at a greater angle, leaning slightly over the detective's back but looking up it. Sherlock in just trousers, with his limbs stretched out beneath and on either side of him. Not many people saw such a sight in their lifetime, and John is once again glad Sherlock is lying face down. John's own face has taken on a pinkish tinge, but he ignores it along with its meaning. John is too busy splaying his rough palms flat on Sherlock's back and spreading his finders apart – it is not at all a technique he has learned from colleagues, rather something he wanted to do in that moment.

And in that moment, John let himself do it without asking questions.


End file.
